October 23: "The Guest," Delight, My Wife's Hand

It doesn't feel like I accomplished a whole lot today.  I graded assignments.  Worked on scheduling upcoming programs at the library.  Read a bunch of poetry manuscripts.  Went for a few long walks.  That's it.

Poet Ross Gay once wrote, "Delight reminds us that there is still beauty in the world, no matter how dark it may seem."

Even on days when accomplishment is nonexistent, I can still find something that brings me delight.

Billy Collins delights in hospitality . . . 

The Guest

by: Billy Collins

I know that the reason you placed nine white tulips
in a glass vase with water
here in this room a few days ago

was not to mark the passage of time
as a fish would have if nailed by the tail
to the wall above the bed of a guest.

But early this morning I did notice
their lowered heads
in the gray light,

two of them even touching the glass
table top near the window,
the blossoms falling open

as they lost their grip on themselves,
and my suitcase only half unpacked by the door.

At the present moment in the United States, delight is in short supply.  Every day I come home, there's at least six or seven political advertisements in my mail.  Facebook is crowded daily with the latest goulash of stupidity uttered by former President Felon.  And I'm more frightened by my neighbor's political signs than by their Halloween decorations.  As Ross Gay says, the world seems pretty dark.

Yet, on my walk this evening, I found delight in the cool breeze against my cheeks.  And a fat gray squirrel stuffing acorns into his cheeks.  Sunlight blazing in an autumn maple.  A man vacuuming leaves off his lawn.  My wife's hand in mine.

Delight is easy.  You just have to train your antennae to notice it.  Collins notices the nine white tulips in the glass vase in his room.  I notice the fog of my breath in the dusky air.  Delight and delight.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to brush my teeth, read a few pages of Tommy Orange's novel Wandering Stars, and then maybe watch a movie on Netflix.  Delight upon delight upon delight.

But first, Saint Marty is going to finish off a bowl of tapioca pudding a friend made for him.  Deeee-light.

October 18: "The Future," Global Pandemic, Wet Dream

I've lived through several events that will probably be in history books for future generations:  The Challenger explosion.  September 11.  Columbine.  The burning of Notre Dame.  Barack Obama being elected President of the United States, twice.  The death of Queen Elizabeth II.

Who knows how people in the future will interpret these moments?  They may get it right, or they may fuck it up mightily.

Billy Collins contemplates being history . . . 

The Future

by: Billy Collins

When I finally arrive there—
And it will take many days and nights—
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.

So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.

Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like—

how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,

how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history—

and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle,
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.

I don't think future generations will understand what it was like to live through the global pandemic.  Sure, there will be books and poems and movies and music and songs written about COVID-19.  They will all talk about mental health; makeshift morgues outside of hospitals; and politics.  However, unless you actually lived through it, you won't really get it.

This may sound strange, but I didn't mind the forced isolation.  In fact, I kind of enjoyed having to stay at home, away from people.  The long walks with my dog where everyone kept their distance.  Nobody knocking on my front door.  The holidays without 500 worship services to attend and five houses to visit.  Zoom church.  Zoom school.  Zoom business meetings.  It was an introvert's wet dream.

I'd never felt so close to my wife and kids.  Sure, it was forced bonding time, but it was still wonderful.  Family game nights and movie nights.  Curbside pickup at Walmart.  Knowing exactly where my kids were at all times.  And all the newest movies on streaming services.

Yes, bad shit happened.  Hundreds of thousands of people died because of President Felon.  People politicized science.  Anti-maskers marched on the state capital in Lansing, schemed to kidnap and kill Governor Whitmer.  Toilet paper just vanished from store shelves.  

During most of the pandemic, my wife and I cleaned and disinfected two churches.  We never ran into anyone.  It was kind of lovely to see the candles burning in the darkness of an empty sanctuary.  Yes, I know that religion is a communal thing.  We're all one, big, happy Christian family.  But there are some family members you just don't want to run into, even at reunions or Thanksgivings or birthdays.

Saint Marty isn't saying he misses the pandemic.  However, he does have a ton of really cool facemasks that he will never have reason to wear again.